


Freaks Like Us

by crazycatlady713



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apritello, F/M, First Kiss, First Love, Het, Period Typical Attitudes, Sideshow - Freeform, freaks, mermaid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazycatlady713/pseuds/crazycatlady713
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the turn of the century and the popularity of the sideshow is at its zenith. Chief amongst them however, is Oroku Saki's Caravan of Curiosities. None can lay claim to the level of unprecedented success this troupe has; Because unlike other shows, the ghastly parodies of humanity in Saki's possession are, in fact, REAL. When an actual mermaid is added to the lineup, it increases sales dramatically...as well as setting a certain terrapin's heart aflame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He has grown accustomed to the looks of shock and revulsion that greet him when the curtain parts, his ears deadened to the gasps and jeers of the audience. The young women swooning in the front row is as commonplace a sight as the sunrise, and after more than a decade of eliciting the same reaction almost every night, he is blessedly inured to it. 

Manual labor has granted him some semblance of solace in this hellhole and he happily accepts any task in need of doing, the constant barrage of chores keeping him perpetually busy. He mends the curtains and keeps the books, waters the horses and cleans the quarters of his fellow oddities, the drudge-work easing his despair as it did Candide and his motley crew. His diligence has not gone unnoticed by his master, who grants him a modicum more freedom than the others. He sends him on errands without fear the boy will take flight, has deemed him far too meek for it. It is an assessment the teenaged terrapin must begrudgingly agree with. 

Not that there was anywhere for him to go if he _did_ leave; Safe harbor was not exactly forthcoming for one such as himself, a fact compounded nightly by the astonished cries his appearance provokes. Nor, has he concluded, would he ever find others quite like him anyway. The images that traverse his slumbering mind almost every night - other young boys that look just like him, gamboling about as a serenely smiling rat-man watches over - are nothing more than dreams. Donatello has long ago given up the belief that a family awaits him out there, has abandoned it as readily as one leaves behind the foolish trappings of youth as they age. 

He now dedicates himself solely to the upkeep of the only home and family he has ever known - Oroku Saki's Caravan of Curiosities.

The caravan itself is as mysterious as the man who runs it, a myriad of rumors swirling about it just as they do he. While other attractions of its ilk merely showcase ordinary (albeit highly unfortunate) humans with a variety of medical maladies, Saki keeps only in his employ the truly freakish - bizarre combinations of man and beast, beings of whom folk tales and fairy stories were written. 

Some say he found each and every one of these wretched souls himself during his many travels, securing them single-handedly. Others say he made them, dousing ordinary creatures with a viscous slime till their bodies distorted into a form local yokels would gladly offer a hard-earned buck to leer at. A scant few have even claimed to have spotted phials of the stuff, emitting an eerie green glow from within a safe he keeps in his office. Whether he forced mythical beasts into servile obeisance or made them via some kind of alchemical process, Donatello hadn't a clue. He certainly lacked the gall to ask.

What little he _does_ know of the man is thus: He fled to this country amidst a scandal back in his homeland, the details of which he knows nothing about, save that it resulted in the gruesome scar that now encompasses most of his master's face. He made a small fortune in the opium trade once here, and developed quite the reputation as a particularly nasty customer in the world of organized crime. His penchant for gruesome torture methods earned him the rather fearsome sobriquet "The Shredder," a moniker only those closest to the man dare refer him.

He eventually opened the caravan for reasons unknown to Donatello, though if he were to hazard a guess, it would be that trafficking human misery is a far more lucrative venture. It also, the boy firmly believes, provides a much more potent high for the villainous cretin than any narcotic he once peddled. 

Though Saki is the closest thing to a father figure Donatello can lay claim to, he is as shrouded in mystery as the boy's own origins. He came to the caravan at a very young age and any memories of his life preceding it are all but gone. Just like everything surrounding this pit of despair, multiple and often disparate tales of how he wound up here abound. His curiosity in regards to both his master and himself has yet to be sated, but he has learned not to ask too many questions. 

Instead he just works, keeping his mind complacent and affording it some pretense of peace.

But just as every lump of coal holds a diamond within, so too can the occasional bright spot be found in this dump. Such was the case one unseasonably cool night in early Spring, when a new addition was added to the lineup. She was found ensnared in some fishnets, the owners of which were paid a goodly sum by Saki...or so the story goes. According to rumor there were quite a few slit throats involved in her acquisition, a scenario Donatello feels is far more likely. Either way, the end result was such that the caravan could now boast a real, live mermaid amongst its ranks. 

"Come one and all, and see for a nominal fee a real live maiden of the sea!" The barker calls on the night of her debut, ushering potential customers into the tent behind him. The crowd gapes at the poster next to him, in which a poorly-rendered mermaid sits upon a rock combing her long hair. The artwork does the actual creature it depicts no justice, as the crowd - and Donatello - soon discovers.

"While some of our competitors may try to pass off a monkey sewn to a fish as a mermaid," Anton continues in that high-pitched, almost porcine squeal of his, "make no mistake! We have secured ourselves an actual daughter of Poseidon, ladies and gentlemen! And for but a pittance, you too can gaze upon this sashimi sweetie of the seven seas for yourselves! Her aquatic allure will leave you panting for more, and her Neptunian charm is sure to alarm! Step right up folks, right this way please!"

Donatello's own tent lies abandoned, as do those of his peers, whilst the mermaid's is practically bursting at the seams. The crowd that has convened within the yellow-and-white striped canvas must number at least a hundred, many folks standing in the aisles and against the walls. For good reason, Donnie supposes. As bewitching a prospect as viewing an actual cryptid may be, Donatello the talking turtle teen, Koya the murderous, bone-rending she-hawk and Mondo the skate-boarding lizard boy can't hold a candle to a _mermaid_. No other creature has so beguiled the imaginations of so many people, has inspired so much artwork and arias, sonnets and stories, as a siren of the deep. 

Excepting perhaps unicorns, Donnie thinks ruefully. But till Saki sinks his venomous fangs into such a creature, the mermaid will be a huge draw for some time to come. Even he is curious, and he creeps toward the tent after everyone has entered. He pulls the flap aside and watches as Anton takes his place before the stage, curtains still drawn, and continues his ballyhoo.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he goes on, his tone strangely somber now, "what lies behind me is no run-of-the-mill aberration, nor some form of trickery. Oh, no. What you will see is an actual nymph of the deepest depths, whose song has ensorceled sea-farers and led them to their untimely deaths. She came to us when she tried her wily, watery ways on our very own Boss as he went a-sailing, who bravely resisted the power of her song and wrestled her aboard his own ship! Master Oroku risked life and limb to bring you this deep-sea seductress, and I beg you heed the following warning!"

The entire assemblage leans forward, hanging onto his every word. Anton hooks his thumbs through his bright red suspenders and looks into the crowd, prolonging the pregnant silence.

"Those of you with a week constitution should leave posthaste!" He denounces in a stage whisper, his eyes hooded. "Our fishy filly here has drowned countless people, adults and children alike, without abandon! I implore you, do not under _any_ circumstances try to approach the beast, for she will attempt to drag to a watery grave!"

Not a single soul rises to leave, Donnie notes. He is holding his breath in anticipation, waiting in earnest for the main attraction. Then, with a final tip of the hat to the audience and a glint in his dark eyes, Anton throws his arm out toward the velvet curtains.

"Now, without further ado, I present...The mermaid!"

There is a sharp intake of breath as the curtains part, revealing a large tank onstage and the promised feature swimming languidly about within. Her hair, like copper-tinged seaweed, drifts around her heart-shaped face, a dusting of pale freckles across her cheeks. She does a little somersault in the water, the spotlight's glare catching on the golden scales of her tail and making it shimmer as though it were festooned with diamonds. 

Her breasts, pale and round as the moon with nipples the color of coral, press up against the glass as she looks out into the audience, educing a giggle from the more immature patrons. Donnie however, can't look away from her eyes; there is something so sad in those lovely aquamarine orbs, a look so despairing it makes his heart catch in his throat. A strange sound suddenly shakes him out of his reverie, and he scans the audience for its source. 

He sees it then, there in the front row; a young woman, barely out of her teens, holds a handkerchief to her eyes as she suppresses a sob. He looks around and finds a similar sight in the row adjacent, and yet again near the back. Whereas shocked gasps and fainting are the usual reaction during these shows, the mermaid has instead wrested tears from her viewers. 

Looking again at the lost look in her eyes, Donnie can see why.

***

It is well past midnight now, and the crowds have long departed for home leaving tissues, empty sweets wrappers and other detritus in their wake. Loud snoring resounds throughout the sleeping car, the freaks nestled into their cots with thin, thread-bare blankets wrapped around their misshapen bodies. Donatello alone remains awake, staring up at the ceiling. He takes a quick look around to ensure that all his compatriots are indeed asleep, then quietly, stealthily, creeps out into the night. Lighting a small stub of a tallow candle, he places it in the lantern and sets off as quietly as he can muster.

Toward the main attraction tent he slinks, where the tank and its lone inhabitant remain sequestered. Sleep so eludes him, his desire to see her once more keeping it at bay. Not till he can espy her just one more time, he tells himself, can he find peace. 

He hears light splashing as he enters, the darkness within barely penetrated by his lantern's scant light. Its tiny, yellowish corona eventually falls upon the maiden as he climbs the stage, where he finds her floating upon the water's surface. Her lovely tresses float like a red nimbus around her head while her pale hands lie motionless on her abdomen. Though her eyes remain closed her translucent yellow tail fin moves continuously, propelling her in slow, languorous circles. He wonders if mermaids, like sharks, must remain in constant motion even in sleep lest they die.

Her eyes suddenly snap open as he stands there musing, the panic evident in their azure depths. She immediately dives down, settling at the bottom where she cowers like a frightened dog. Donnie sets the lantern down, holds his hands up in surrender.

"Please don't be afraid!" He pleads, his chocolate brown eyes wide and beseeching. "I won't hurt you!"

She simply stares back at him, her tail held fast against her chest as she tries to hide behind it like a glistening golden shield. His heart aches for the poor thing. He drops to his knees before her, slides the lantern closer so she may get a better look at him. 

"See?" He says, inching closer to the glass. "I'm like you...well, kinda. I'm different, I'm a freak too! Please don't be scared."

Whether it is his words or his appearance that does the job he does not know, but it has the desired effect; She seems to understand that he is not a threat, and he watches as the tension flees her body. She relaxes, the terrified look in her eyes evaporates. Her rosebud pink lips quirk in a small smile and she rises to the surface, a deluge of bubbles erupting behind her as she ascends. Breathing a sigh of relief he retrieves the ladder stored in the wing, the girl watching from above. 

"Okay, um...please don't drown me," he says as he climbs to the top, the creature looking on in silence. "Although that might be hard, as we turtles can hold our breath for a very long time. But anyway, my name is Donatello. You can call me Donnie."

She looks quizzically down at his hand as he extends it for a shake, her head cocked to one side. 

"...You probably don't understand the way humans interact, huh?" he says after a while, letting his hand drop. "Yeah, that was pretty dumb of me to expect you to know."

She continues to stare dumbfounded, her big blue eyes wide and questioning. The only sound is of the water lapping about her shoulders as she sways in place. Although his basis for comparison is admittedly non-existent, he had imagined mermaids to be more talkative, or to at least sing. The ones in fairy stories always did, were quite known for it in fact. He wonders why this one is so silent, and thinks perhaps the tales were entirely wrong. Perhaps real mermaids are more animal than previously thought? 

"Well, um...it was nice meeting you." he says sadly, as he begins his descent. There doesn't seem to be much of a point in continuing this awkward, one-sided conversation. She swims rapidly toward the edge however, reaches for him as he is halfway down the ladder. She makes a sound then, like a half-choked sob, as her eyebrows knit together with worry.

"Y-you don't want me to leave?" he inquires haltingly as he looks up at her, long strands of lank, wet hair framing her face as she peers over the lip of the tank. Something akin to a barely audible moan arises from her throat, which he wisely assumes to be a no. He climbs the ladder once again, that lovely smile returning once more as they come face-to-face.

"Do you have a name?" He asks, not really expecting an answer. She looks askance at him, almost as if she understands him somewhat but simply doesn't know how to respond. She seems more intelligent than he originally took her for, and he feels instantly ashamed. Perhaps if he spoke more to her, she would begin to understand?

"You're too amazing a creature to not have a name," he continues. "What if I gave you one right now?"

She smiles sheepishly in response, lending credence to his theory that she does, in fact, possess some mild understanding of human speech. 

"Alright, then. Well, uh...Your tail is a lovely golden hue. Perhaps Goldie?"

She looks away, disinterested.

"Okay, definitely not Goldie. How about Ruby, like the red of your hair?"

She sighs heavily and slices her hand through the water, in a motion that looks suspiciously like one of profound disgust. Ruby clearly did not meet her approval.

"Haha, okay. Um...Well, it's the month of April. How about April?"

A huge smile spreads across her face, and she dives down into the water. He watches, amazed, as she performs what appears to be some kind of underwater dance. She spins about, her arms high above her head, her glorious, shimmering tail sending clouds of bubbles swirling about. She looks at him coquettishly, her diaphanous tail fin held before her face like a fan. 

It occurs to him quite suddenly, then; Her kind must communicate primarily through movement, not unlike bees. How foolish of him to have underestimated her!

"April it is, then!" He happily exclaims, as her head breaches the water's surface once more. 

They peer into one another's eyes then, the gap-toothed grin upon his face as wide and joyous as her own. He opens his mouth to speak but is silenced instantly by a sound just outside the tent's entrance. A string of foul language punctuates the still night air, delivered in a gruff, thickly Russian-accented voice. The night watchman and Saki's right-hand is out and about, and clearly perturbed by the filth littering the grounds.

"Damn! Its Steranko!" Donnie whispers. April looks at him, terror filling her eyes again. "I'll get in big trouble if he finds me here. But I promise to visit you again tomorrow night, okay?"

She nods assent and reaches out to him one last time, her webbed fingers giving his a quick squeeze before he regretfully pulls his hand free. Sliding quickly down the ladder, he stashes it in the storage space to the side of the stage and takes off. He looks back at her as he departs, a long, lingering glance that she returns with great aplomb. With a deep sigh of resignation he snatches up the lantern and blows out the candle, plunging them both into darkness once again. 

He creeps out of the tent, careful to avoid that beastly Ivan as he lopes past with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He heads back to the sleeping quarters, silent as a mouse, and tiptoes to his cot.

Lying there in the dark, sleep overtaking him slowly but surely, he presses his still moist fingertips to his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

Donnie goes about his daily routine with a renewed vigor, humming merrily to himself as he performs his duties. The drudgery that once served to keep his mind occupied, to keep it from dwelling upon his station in life, has suddenly developed a whole new meaning; It now grants him additional opportunities to see her without having to sneak out at night and thus risk incurring Ivan's wrath.

April herself has made it abundantly clear that he and he alone should tend to her needs. Meals delivered by anyone other than the olive-hued turtle results in her ducking beneath the water, rising up to collect the food that floats upon the surface only after they depart. For Donnie alone will she breach, rising up instantly at his approach and taking the offering of kelp from his outstretched palm with a grateful smile.

While others are promptly soaked from head to toe as they change her water, the mischievous maiden splashing them with a quick swipe of her strong tail, Donnie alone can perform the task while remaining bone dry. Patiently she'd submerge and wait at the bottom of her glass enclosure while he siphons out the dirty water. And as he painstakingly refills it, bucket after tiresome bucket, he looks down to see her staring up at him with a look of adulation upon her face.

There is nothing he looks forward to more than moving to a new location, however. It was once his most hated chore. The ephemeral nature of their residences mean they have to dismantle the stages and tents every few weeks, and the heavy-lifting the task requires is a tedious, back-breaking process that leaves him aching for days afterward. With the new inclusion of April, they now have yet another duty to perform; She needs to be carried out of her tank by hand and placed into a smaller, temporary one as they travel to a new locale.

It is a function none look forward to - except for Donnie, of course. She is willful and disobedient, thrashing about and splashing anyone who tries to remove her. She is calm for Donnie though, wrapping her small hands around his neck as he carries her out and sighing contently against his chest. He, in turn, cherishes the fleeting moments he can hold her in his arms and secretly wishes they can move more often.

Despite the frequent opportunities he now has to see her, he still creeps silently out to her tank for nightly visits whenever he can. Taking into account Steranko's late night patrols and his strict, almost obsessive dedication to following the same route at almost the same time every evening, Donnie carefully gauges when he can slip out to see her to avoid discovery. 

She waits eagerly for him every night, whether he arrives or not, resting her arms on the rim of her tank and keeping a careful eye on the entrance. These visitations are something they both enjoy, and Donnie does his best to ensure that his company provides her with both entertainment and information. He reads to her often, speaks to her and shows her pictures while she, though perpetually silent, hangs spellbound onto his every word.

"'What Giants?' said Sancho Panza. 'Those you see over there,' replied his master, 'with the long arms; sometimes they are almost two leagues long.'" 

Donnie looks up from the book for a brief moment to glance at his friend, who listens with her elbows propped up on the edge and her chin resting in her hands. Though she listens intently, he wonders how much she can understand. He shifts a bit upon his perch on the ladder and continues reading aloud.

"'Look, your grace,' Sancho responded, 'those things that appear over there aren't giants but windmills, and what looks like their arms are the sails that are turned by the wind and make the grindstone move.' 'It seems clear to me,' replied Don Quixote, 'that thou art not well-versed in the matter of adventures: these are giants; and if thou art afraid, move aside and start to pray whilst I enter with them in fierce and unequal combat.'"

She titters sweetly, her laugh like the chiming of tiny silver bells. She _is_ understanding, Donnie notes with a smile. And she seems to be vocalizing a bit more as well. 

"That was pretty funny, huh?" he says.

She nods vigorously in response, her drenched auburn locks sending tiny droplets flying about.

"Haha, I'm glad you like it! This is my favorite story, too." He begrudgingly places the bookmark between the pages and closes it, stifling a yawn as he does so. "And although I hate to have to leave on a cliffhanger, I ought to go. Its getting awfully late, and we both need our beauty sleep. Well, me more than you, heh. Good night, April."

"...More."

He pauses in his descent and looks back up at her, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

"D-did you just say something?"

"More," she repeats slowly, enunciating the word as though he were a dullard. "More book, please."

Donnie can scarcely believe his ears. He fumbles on the ladder, falls onto his rump as the book goes flying pell-mell through the air. He looks up in time to see her staring down at him, her lovely lapis eyes filled with concern.

"Hurt?" she inquires, her voice as sweet and melodic as a nightingale's.

If he were indeed injured he wouldn't have known; so elated is he by this revelation that he leaps immediately to his feet, scurries up the ladder once again.

"I knew it!" he cries, taking her hands in his. "I knew you could understand! This is absolutely amazing! Oh April, I'm so sorry I ever doubted you!"

"Please more book," she says simply in response.

"Yes! Yes, of course you can have more book!"

He climbs dutifully down the ladder and retrieves the fallen tome. The bookmark has been dislodged in the fall, and he leafs rapidly through the pages in search of where they left off, cursing under his breath for having to keep the flame-haired beauty waiting. He ascends once more, almost falling again as he misses a rung in his eagerness to resume reading to her.

"And having said this," an out-of-breath Donnie continues, his exhaustion forgotten, "he spurred his horse, Rocinante, paying no attention to the shouts of his squire, Sancho, who warned him that, beyond any doubt, those things he was about to attack were windmills and not giants."

April takes up her listening stance once again, a satisfied smile upon her freckled face, as though nothing happened.

***

Her curiosity is insatiable. Donnie can scarcely keep up with her voracious appetite for books, and has read aloud each one in his small collection three times over. The fortunate byproduct is such that her vocabulary has grown by leaps and bounds, and their conversations aren't quite so one-sided anymore.

His steadfast devotion to her education is repaid tenfold, her newfound fluency in human speech allowing her to regale him with tales of her own. Merfolk, she explains, are a nomadic society, traveling to different locales based on the seasons and the availability of food. They reside in clans wherein titles are passed through a matrilineal line and are vegetarians, relying predominantly on foraging. The consumption of fish is strictly verboten and considered a form of cannibalism, for what Donnie feels is a very valid reason.

He is pleased to discover that his earlier assumption, that her people communicate primarily through non-verbal means, is correct. The undulation of one's tail is used to convey joy, anger, even the desire to mate. The courting ritual, she goes on to explain, involves a "dance" in which the female spirals around her prospective partner as they swim together, gliding her tail all over her potential mate's body. 

He dreams often of being on the receiving end of such a display; of swimming alongside his beloved, her lithe body pressed against his and her golden tail caressing every inch of his olive skin. He keeps these musings to himself, however.

"What have you got for me today, Donnie?" she asks, watching as he enters the tent one night lugging something big and bulky in one hand and his lantern in the other.

"Something I think you'll really enjoy," he replies, dropping the object onto the stage with a slight grunt. "Its called a victrola, and you use it to listen to music. I have one of my favorite selections here for you."

He removes a black, waxy disc from a paper sleeve and places it on the device, careful to keep the volume to a minimum. The most beautiful, heart-rending sound emerges from the large brass horn, and while April cannot understand the lyrics, she can feel the pain in the singer's voice. The song, both plaintive and hopeful, beguiles her instantly. 

"What is this called?" she whispers, her hand upon her heart.

"Its called 'Song to the Moon,' and its from an opera entitled Rusalka...Do you like it?"

"Its lovely," she responds, her voice distant. "What is she singing about?"

"Well, my Czech is pretty rusty," he says as he joins her atop his ladder, "but basically, Rusalka is a water nymph who is in love with a human prince, and she wants nothing more than to become human so they can be together. She is singing to the moon here, asking that it send her love to him."

"What happens to them?" she asks when the aria draws to a somber close. "Does Rusalka and her prince end up together?"

"Well..." Donnie hesitates. "The witch from whom Rusalka is given human form decrees that if her prince ever betrays her, they will both be damned. Sadly, through the machinations of a jilted princess, that is precisely what happens. In the end they kiss one last time before he dies, and Rusalka is turned into a demon of death who drowns those who come into her lake."

"How awful!" April laments. 

"They were at least able to experience true love, if only for a short while," Donnie says, turning away as a blush rises to his cheeks. 

"I meant the way my people are always portrayed as either pining over some human or obsessed with drowning them!" she cries adamantly. "Honestly, humans are such pompous creatures! Do they really think our lives are so lacking that all we do is float around, thinking about them constantly?"

A gap-toothed grin spreads across his face at this, just as a loud, snorting guffaw bursts forth.

"I suppose you're right," he says when he recovers. "Humans are such silly things...I think they truly feel as if they are the only beings on Earth, or at least the only ones worth acknowledgement. I firmly believe the success of 'freakshows' such as ours is a result of having that hubris questioned; The idea that there are others out there unlike themselves is so baffling a concept, it prompts them to seek us out and see for themselves."

"I am inclined to agree," April chimes in, "though I feel your hypothesis is a bit lacking."

"Oh? In what regard?"

"I think the real reason humans flock to see us," she says, leaning in closer, "is sheer jealousy. Think about it. We have here within our own troupe a winged beast who can soar higher than the Heavens and flay another creature, in mere seconds, with her razor-sharp talons! There is another who can run upon all fours as expertly as he can on two, while I myself can breathe underwater.

"It isn't merely curiosity that compels them to look upon us...it is a desire to see us driven before them, weak and diminished. To know that we exist at all is to remind them of their own shortcomings, while seeing us enslaved is to have the natural order of things reaffirmed."

"A rather tenebrous viewpoint, to be sure," Donnie replies with a nod.

"I stand by every word of it."

"Let's not dwell on such dark matters," he says with a dismissive wave of the hand. "The time I have with you is so fleeting, I'd much prefer we talk of something more lighthearted. Please, tell me again what life is like in the ocean?"

"Oh Donnie, I wish you could see it!" she heartily exclaims, floating upon her back. "There are forests of kelp so high you'd have to swim for _hours_ just to reach the top! And how the sun's rays would filter through the leaves, tinting everything a lovely emerald...I used to love racing through it with my sisters, how it'd tickle us as we swam by and give us goosepimples!

"And all the different creatures that live beneath the waves...Donnie, the ocean is positively teeming with life! Did you know, there are fish who live even in the deepest, darkest depths and lure prey to them with a tiny lantern that grows right out of their own heads? And there are whales so big, my entire tribe can fit inside their massive, gaping maws with room to spare, yet they are so gentle and friendly, like giant puppies. Their songs are so lovely, they could lull even the most finicky babe to sleep.

"And then there is my tribe. I know they would love you, just as you would love them," she solemnly concludes, her lovely cerulean eyes adrift.

"You miss them, don't you?" Donnie asks, taking her hand in his.

"Of course!" she responds, giving his hand a squeeze. "Don't you miss your family?"

"I don't think I have a family," he says softly. "I dream sometimes of other boys who look like me, but if they are anything other than dreams I honestly don't know."

"...Would it shock you if I said I once met a few who _do_ look just like you?"

He looks at her aghast, his brown eyes wide as dinner plates.

"Its true," she continues. "It was a year or two ago, when we were returning to our summer location; I rose to the surface to take a look around as I am wont to do, my curiosity often getting the better of me, and saw a boy fishing off a quay. I was very surprised to see him; The area was not known to have any human inhabitants, which was precisely why we went there. I swam closer and hid behind a rock to get a better look at him, and realized he _wasn't_ human...

"He looked very much like you, though he was a bit shorter, and his skin a touch lighter, more of a seafoam green. His eyes were a lovely cornflower blue, with a smattering of freckles across his cheeks. His fishing line was pulled taut as I looked on, and he happily called out to his fellows to boast of his catch. Two more showed up, as did another with dark fur and a long snout and tail. The furred one must've sensed my presence, for he turned and looked me directly in the face! I was so startled I fled straightaway..."

Though initially skeptical, the inclusion of the rat-man set her tale squarely in the realm of believability. He never once told her of such a being; How else would she have known of him than by having seen him herself?

"What if they are still out there, waiting for you?" she goes on, her tone almost pleading. "Wouldn't you like to see them, Donnie?"

"Its not that easy, April!" he says. "Trust me when I tell you, Saki is not a man you want to run afoul of."

She removes her hand from his, looks at him with narrowed eyes. "I am of the mind that you are less afraid of _him_ than you are of the world beyond these grounds."

"For good reason," he replies sadly.

"Donnie, listen to me. There is a very big world out there, with many different lifeforms in it. You aren't nearly as freakish as you've been led your whole life to believe, and others are not as inhospitable as you've come to expect."

"I don't think you understand, April," he says with an exasperated sigh. "We can't just leave. The cruelty this man is capable of..."

"I know full well the kind of cruelty he is capable of!" she shouts, throwing a slender arm out to encompass her doleful surroundings.

"...I'll think of something," he says finally. "Someone as glorious as you is not suited for so horrid a place."

"Nor you, whether you realize it or not."

"I'm wholly undeserving of your friendship," he mournfully replies as he begins his descent. "But eternally grateful for it all the same. Good night, April."

"Donnie, wait!"

Her arms encircle him as he rises back up to face her, the maiden clinging to him like a lifeboat in a raging storm. His eyes widen momentarily in surprise before he closes them, melting into her embrace, her breasts pressed close to his plastron as her lips suddenly converge upon his. She flattens her palms against his scutes as he lets his hands travel up her back, slowly and hesitantly, relishing the coolness of her damp skin.

A contented churr arises from his throat then, a sound he didn't even know himself capable of producing. She responds in kind, moaning softly against his mouth. He has dreamt so often of this moment he fears he will open his eyes and find himself alone in his cot once again; the feel of her flesh against his proclaims otherwise, and he almost laughs aloud at his absurdly good fortune.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything," he says when they reluctantly part, "but to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm sorry, I...I don't know what came over me," she sheepishly responds, her cheeks flushing a red as deep as her hair. "It's just...If there is one good thing that came of this whole situation, its having met you. You've made my imprisonment here that much more endurable, and I look forward to the day when we can be free of this place."

"You truly are too good for this hellhole," he says, pulling her in close. "I'll find us a way out of here. I promise."

"I know you will."

They kiss once more, trying to fend off for as long as possible the lonely night that awaits them both once Donnie takes his leave. Unbeknownst to the pair, an audience of one watches from the shadows. With his one good eye trained on the scene playing out before him, an oily grin spreads across his heavily-scarred face...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All sacrifices are futile." ~ Rusalka, Act 3

**Author's Note:**

> "I know not if there is a reason  
> Why I am so sad at heart.  
> A legend of bygone ages  
> Haunts me and will not depart."
> 
> ~ The Lorelei, Heinrich Heine


End file.
